


cento between the ending and the end

by boulevards



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (maybe), Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, inconsistent writing style sorry, the best way to avoid addressing things is to not mention them at all, this poem made me think of atla so that’s what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23570107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulevards/pseuds/boulevards
Summary: you leave home, desperate to escape the disillusionment. then you meet the avatar. (the rest is history.)
Relationships: Zuko (Avatar)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 105





	cento between the ending and the end

_sometimes you don’t die_

_when you’re supposed to_

> Chey runs into the camp with his face flushed, his chest heaving, and his eyes burning bright.
> 
> He’s beaming as he rushes over to where you and Jeong Jeong sit at opposite sides of a Pai Sho board, your mentor’s eagle eyes fixed on the game as he mulls over his options for his next move. He’s grinning as he slams his hands on the table, rattling the Pai Sho tiles and startling you out of your stupor, but failing to disturb Jeong Jeong’s unperturbed state. He’s glowing as he glances back and forth between the two of you with excitement and insuppressible _hope_ —something you haven’t seen (or felt) in a long time.
> 
> Then four words tumble out of his mouth and you understand why.
> 
> _The Avatar has returned._
> 
> The gaping hole in your chest shivers and golden eyes light up in the back of your mind—angry, determined, _ablaze._

_and now i have a choice_

> (“Do you think he knows?” you ask as Jeong Jeong reaches out to move one of his Pai Sho tiles. “About the Avatar, I mean.”
> 
> “I think that you don’t need me to answer that question for you and that you won’t figure it out by staying here,” he replies, sage and resolute. “But, let us finish this game first. I have a feeling that I am about to win.”
> 
> You don’t miss the twinkle in his eye as he places the white lotus tile onto the board—in the center spot—with a soft click.)

_repair a world or build_

_a new one inside my body_

> He’s standing in the middle of a tiny Earth Kingdom village, clutching an outdated and worn-out map while squinting at and attempting to decipher jumbled scribbles of names of towns and landmarks, when you accidentally bump into him.
> 
> Tall, tan, topknot, toothy grin. He asks you if there are any towns nearby where he can stock up on food and supplies. You grin back.
> 
> His name is Sokka from the South Pole, good with directions—when he has a proper map—and great with plans. And a nonbender, but decent with a sword and a master with the boomerang.
> 
> (“Hold on, a _boomerang_?” you ask, one eyebrow raised as he pulls out the polished weapon from the sheath on his back, the shiny metal glinting in the sun.
> 
> “Yeah, is there something wrong with that?” he counters.
> 
> “No, not really,” you reply, watching as he flips it lightly into the air and as it lands neatly back in his palm. “I’ve just never met anyone who uses a boomerang as a weapon.”
> 
> He laughs, “Well, I guess that makes me one of a kind, baby.”)
> 
> Sokka is all sharp angles—outgoing and sarcastic, letting out a loud whoop and clapping you on the shoulder when you flash the blade of a dagger and admit that you don’t bend either. He’s boisterous at times and you quickly learn that his infectious laugh is a common occurrence, paying no attention to the slight hitch in his breath that precedes each fit of hysterics.
> 
> Later, as you lead him to a bustling harbor town nearby, he introduces you to his little band of travelers.
> 
> Katara. Smooth lines to complement her brother’s cacophonous nature—kind eyes and a soft smile, long hair braided down her back, calm but resolute—and a waterbender. She’s approachable and easy to talk to, immediately welcoming and easy to befriend. Yet, Katara can be sharp when she wants to be. You take note as she hurls witty insults at Sokka’s navigation skills.
> 
> Appa and Momo. A flying bison and a winged lemur, two creatures you’ve only ever read about in the dusty books in your father’s library. Momo chitters and flies around you a few times out of curiosity before returning to circle Appa’s head. The bison grunts in your direction and continues to amble forward.
> 
> And Aang. The Avatar. Wide-eyed, grinning, full of _hope_. So much so that you feel like you’re dreaming.

_a white door opens_

> As soon as the town comes into sight, Aang and Katara rush ahead—Momo, too—eager to visit the shops and market stalls. Sokka stays behind with you and Appa.
> 
> He’s quiet for a moment, then the question tumbles out of his mouth.
> 
> _You’re from the Fire Nation, aren’t you?_
> 
> You should have seen it coming from miles away.

_into a place queerly brimming_

> (“It’s been nearly two years since I left. Most of the time, I find myself not wanting to go back.”
> 
> “But it’s still home,” Sokka adds.
> 
> “Yeah,” you sigh and swallow the lump in your throat. “It’s still home.”)

_gold light so velvet-gold_

> It’s unexpected, but so sincere.
> 
> _Why don’t you come along with us?_
> 
> You can’t suppress the smile and the feeling of warmth that spreads through your body when you climb up onto Appa’s back. As the flying bison takes off into the sky, you feel the wind around you and something surging—the hole in your chest shrinking and beginning to heal.

_it is like the world_

_hasn’t happened_

> You can’t push the image out of your head—Yue falling backward, her white-blonde hair pooling in the water and curling around her head like a halo. You remember the tranquility that washed over the princess’s face, the stillness in the air as she fell, and the solemnity as she sank to the bottom. Even though it’s been days, the scene is still as clear and still as _haunting._
> 
> To your left, Sokka laughs at one of Aang’s jokes. This time, you catch onto the slight hitch in his breath. It’s an indication—he’s lost something important and hasn’t yet forgiven himself. (You feel the same way, sometimes.) You wonder what else the war has taken from him.
> 
> At night, you recall burnt skin warped around an angry eye. A startling clash of red and gold—so vivid, so noble, so _hurt._ Your shaking hands clutching onto his tear-stained shirt, trembling voice demanding him to _come back soon._ How quickly _soon_ became a year, then two. Then three.
> 
> You remember the pervading silence that followed his exile. It’s the same silence that followed Yue’s descent.
> 
> The war, cruel and unforgiving, hangs overhead.

_when i call out_

_all my friends are there_

> Toph Beifong is an avalanche of a girl—chaotic, strong, unable to stop once set into motion. It’s no wonder that she and Katara butt heads so quickly. But, she fits in nicely, works well with the group after she and Katara reconcile their differences, and dedicates herself to the cause.
> 
> At a first glance, Toph is reckless and wild when it comes to earthbending—much like a hotheaded firebender you know. Yet, you have never seen someone push and pull at dirt and stone with as much grace and precision as the tiny blind girl.
> 
> One night, after you finish describing the constellations in the sky to her, admiring them for their complexity and ineffable beauty, she shares her wisdom with you.
> 
> _You find something, you grab onto it, and you make it uniquely yours._
> 
> Toph is the friend you always wanted and never had. One brimming with insights and always moving toward some honorable goal, but unafraid to break a few things along the way—rules, walls, bones. One who will listen intently without judging or mocking you when you have something to say—and does exactly that when you let out your pent-up resentment that had been building up for the past few years toward the values you had been raised on. One who you know you can trust.
> 
> Your little band of travelers doesn’t feel so little anymore and the hole in your chest grows smaller and smaller with each passing day.

_everyone we love_

_is still alive_

> His hair is grown out. It hangs messily across his forehead, let loose from the neat ponytail he used to tie it into. He looks more relaxed, less uptight, free from everything that forced him to hold his tongue, unafraid of what’s behind his back. His smile feels whole. You like him better this way.
> 
> It’s a bit comical—meeting him again in a city so far from where you thought he would find comfort in, looking so different from the last time you saw him. (And working in a _tea shop_ , something you never thought he’d ever been willing to do.) Yet, you find him standing in the middle of that small crooked building in Ba Sing Se’s Lower Ring, gracefully pouring tea into a customer’s cup before bidding them a good day and moving on to the next table. It’s no wonder that you almost don’t recognize him.
> 
> But the familiarity comes flooding back the moment he pulls you into his arms after leading you out into the secluded alleyway behind the teashop.
> 
> You cry into his chest. _Because it’s been so long and I missed you so much._
> 
> He holds you tighter. _Because I’m sorry._

_gathered_

_at the lakeside_

> Stepping back onto Ember Island’s shores feels surreal. Walking through the front doors of your family home, even more so. Your parents greet you warmly, ask you about your travels, fill you in on what you’ve missed. Your older brother cracks some jokes, punches your shoulder lightly, and tells you he only missed you a bit.
> 
> He finds you standing on the beach that evening. Your toes buried in the sand, hands in your pockets, a contemplative look on your face. Together, you recall memories of your childhoods.
> 
> Days spent sitting stiffly in stuffy classrooms with perfect posture and seemingly engaged expressions, attentively listening to lectures about _our nation’s glory._ Hours of military and political history—Sozin, Azulon, and various generals and commanders whose names and accomplishments you could rattle off. (Names and accomplishments that you forced out of your mind the second you stepped foot off Fire Nation soil.)
> 
> Evenings spent running barefoot on the beach, dancing in the salty breeze with pink clouds and a sunset in the background. Or sparring, him critiquing your skills or you showing off a new technique you learned while your feet sank into the soft sand and some noisy gulls flew overhead.
> 
> Nights spent angrily whispering at him to shut up and leave you alone because, somehow, he always knew when you were awake when you weren’t supposed to be, always knew where you were hiding in your father’s library, and always knew what—or rather who—was on your mind.
> 
> When you go quiet, he asks what you’re thinking about. You can’t seem to find the right words. 

_like constellations_

> (“Remember when Ruon-Jian asked you out and you responded by punching him in the face?”
> 
> “Yeah,” you laugh, remembering how the boy had approached you with an atrocious pick-up line and how you had so desperately wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face. “He was an asshole.”
> 
> Your brother snickers, “Good times.”
> 
> You echo emptily, “Good times.”)

_my honeyed kin_

> Ba Sing Se falls overnight.
> 
> The news comes in the form of your brother bursting through the doors of your father’s library, where you’re sitting peacefully in an armchair and paging through a book about stars and other celestial objects. When you look up, you’re met with a frown, eyes wavering—strained, a little bit scared. It doesn’t take you long to figure out that there’s something wrong.
> 
> A letter from Azula follows and, two days later, you’re within the concentric stone walls again.
> 
> You know you should let Zuko be. Let him wallow. Give him space to mourn. But Azula smirks and lets slip the shred of knowledge that gives her the upper hand. She’s seen glimpses—sunlight glinting off the blades of your daggers, blurs of the hair ribbons you always wear. 
> 
> _Traitor._

_honeyed light_

> The air surrounding the top deck is cold and stiff and bitter on the ship ride home, but it’s where he is, so you stay—your head resting against his shoulder, his arm around your waist.
> 
> You ask him if he finds it strange to be going home after so many years away. When he doesn’t respond, you turn your gaze up to his face and find him staring out into the distance, expression blank, mouth set in a firm line. But, his eyes look so lost and he feels so far away.
> 
> The hole in your chest begins to widen again.

_beneath the sky_

_a garden blue stalks_

_white buds_

> (Ozai raises his fist. Iroh covers your eyes.
> 
> “No one should have to witness something so terrible,” he tells you afterward.
> 
> Something inside you shifts out of place.)

_the moon’s_

_marble glow_

> _You left to chase after a boy._
> 
> Azula stands with her hands on her hips, looking proud of her comment. She wants you to stand up and yell back at her, prove her wrong—and she _is_ wrong. Azula is _wrong_.
> 
> You left because you _wanted to_ , because you were _tired_ , because _everything you had been told was a lie_. And it wasn’t Zuko’s banishment that had shown you that.
> 
> Those seeds were planted years before, nurtured over the summers you spent away from home honing your skills with shiny silver knives, watered with your sweat and incessant curiosity. (“More like nosiness,” your brother would have called it.) Soon, they sprouted, stretched their roots and tied themselves down, resisting any deweeding from indoctrination attempts during the school years. Seeing Zuko, with a bandage over his eye and his shoulders slumped and his entire being so _broken_ only gave them more room to grow.
> 
> And they grew.
> 
> Tendrils curling and suffocating the sickly-sweet praises of the nation’s magnificence and grandeur (and lies). Roots digging deeper until the only thing burning through you when you thought of the nation you grew up in was resentment and hatred and every other ugly feeling that made you sick to your stomach.
> 
> And so, you left.
> 
> Azula is wrong. But, you’re tired of fighting her. So you smile politely, in the way you’ve been taught to.
> 
> _Maybe I did._

_the fire_

_distant and flickering_

> The air feels drier and hotter with each passing day. It’s unsettling and sets off something within you—makes you wonder what it’s leading up to and if there’s a storm on its way.
> 
> At night, when Zuko stands with you on your balcony—the two of you leaning against the railing, shoulders touching, gazing at the navy blue expanse of sky—you fall into him, searching for the comfort of his arms. _Because something’s coming and I don’t think it’s good._
> 
> He holds you closer. Hands gripping your waist, fingers laced tightly with yours like he’s afraid you’ll slip through the cracks and fall away from him. _Because I feel it, too._
> 
> You receive a small package and a letter from Piandao the next day.
> 
> (“Your friend Sokka is a fine swordsman,” it reads. “He is a very good student, asks a lot of questions, and is somewhat unconventional. He reminded me a bit of you.”)
> 
> Something at the bottom of the letter, scribbled in the corner, catches your eye.
> 
> _He’s alive._
> 
> You open up the package and a Pai Sho tile falls into your palm, the white lotus engraved on its face.

_the body whole bright-_

_winged brimming_

> Toph and Sokka and Suki and you. (And Katara and Zuko and Aang. Where are they?)
> 
> Red. Glaring brightness. Body sore. On the verge of breaking. A ringing in your ears. The smell of something burning.
> 
> You can’t remember anything else.

_with the hours_

_of the day_

> (Funnily enough, you’ve never felt more whole.)

_beautiful_

_nameless planet_

> Afterward, he kisses you hard. Urgent, but sweet, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. _Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it out with you by my side._
> 
> You kiss him back. Soft and delicate, hands resting against his chest. _Because I love you, too._

_oh_

_friends, my friends—_

_bloom how you must, wild_

_until we are free._

**Author's Note:**

> based off of and title from cameron-awkward rich’s “cento between the ending and the end”
> 
> added some new parts (2 feb. 2021)


End file.
